The Goths' Note of Truths
by NotebookChen
Summary: A story I don't think I'll finnish. It follows the mindsets of the goth kids and how they interact with one another, themselves, religion, and life. Kennrietta and CuRe. Some poetry eventually, by Stephen Crane
1. Ian the comrade

_**Author's note: This first chapter has nothing to do with the story. If you wish, you may skip ahead. This is a reference chapter, basically just to get you informed on their names. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO READ THIS.**_

_**again,  
**_

**_Y_****_OU DO NOT HAVE TO READ THIS FIRST CHAPTER._**

* * *

_Ian disliked the nickname he was given, even though it helped him. Perhaps it was that he disliked being helped so much in part that he didn't favor his nickname, but more likely, Ian cared not for the name "KinderGoth" because it was given to him by conformists, it was outdated due to him being in high school, and/or it was insulting that he was compared to a kinder gardener when he was simply just short. Sure, it helped him have an excuse to being smaller than the rest of the grade, but Ian was sick of that. He was the same age as Henrietta, Shane and Matt; shouldn't he have a nickname like "CurlyGoth" or "TallGoth" like Shane had? Or "FlippyGoth", "RedGoth", or simply the male "Red" like Matt? Henrietta was "FemGoth", which was sexist but true in its own. Ian detested being called a midget (which he wasn't) so he became a goth on the outside to match his already blank inside, but that only shifted the attention from height to clique, and did next-to-nothing to stop "the conformists" from poking fun at his petiteness. KinderGoth was simply a wrong name. Wrong, but he could only bring himself to dislike it. None more. That was how Ian was. That was the gothic personality Ian was genuinely born with. But it was still a wrong name. Knowing this, Ian's close group of friends decided on something different; making up their own names, which were different than their "conformist given names" and different than the names the kids at school bestowed them with. Henrietta became Pierian, for obvious reasons, and Shane was called Torrent- after his ability to hold grudges until his reign had been cast- deadly and fast. Matt was known within the goths as Cyanide- his revenge on the ignorant unnoticed among the vials of clearer liquids, but able to burn through you in seconds. On the rare good days when you felt okay enough to shorten the nicknames, one could call another Pi (which sounded curiously to outsiders like pie), Tor, or Cy. So- What was Ian's name among the nameless? Was it worldly and victorian like Pierian? Was it passionately violent like Torrent or Cyanide? Or was it what it really was- something given to describe Ian the way he was, like the rest of the goths' names? It was the latter; a name that summed up Ian's personality- one that was more silent than the quiet ones he roamed with, a person so heartless and aloof, so distant and neutral that he didn't get angry like the other three goths, or even sad? Blasé. That was Ian's nickname around his kind. Shortened at times to Zay, though again I mention that these names were almost never shortened. As Pierian would put it, Alexander didn't go by Alex, he went by Alexander the Great. So every once and a while, when they were feeling poetic, the goths called one another by "Our Queen of the Damned" (henrietta), "Our Irascible Beast" (shane), "Our Lurid Shadower" (matt) and the last name left to reference, "Our Schizoid Comrade" (for Ian). While within those who've condemned all things that havent been condemned, Ian could appear as just the short kid in the background. Did this bother him? Not really. Should it have? Probably. But then again, if it did, he wouldn't be described as such.  
_

_If you were to ask Ian what name he preferred, he would sit for a moment, waiting for you to give up and leave him be, but if you stick it out, you would most likely get this answer, "I don't care. I don't hate any of them and I don't love any of them. However, I think going with the most suiting name would be most acceptable." And for this, Blasé was the least used, but only compared to the names Pierian, Cyanide, or Torrent. He was talked _about _the least, is what I had meant by that comment; The name Ian hears himself being referred to the most is Blasé, except by Henrietta. Piereian had the tendency to use the name 'shizoid comrade' more, for the gothic effect possibly, but probably because she found it most suiting- which is why one day, when Craig walked into the abandoned classroom, taking a wrong turn, he heard the curious phrase, _"Hey, my schizoid comrade, could you hand me that pen in my bag- you know, the one with the blood-red ink, no, the blood-red, not luminescent-red, yeah that one! Thank you my schizoid comrade. Torrent; what was that one part again?" _Craig turned on his heel and proceeded out of the room._

_The goths might be too hard to follow, but once you learn the rules, the game is easy- so I suggest you check over this note once more and get everything down pat, because I am the Queen of the Damned, and I wrote this note in blood-red ink for my schizoid comrade to look over and approve before we travel to anywhere and set this note free. A tradition of ours- please honor it. If you were lucky enough to find this note, I only ask this of you- What name suits the mind of the body holding this confession? Does it match the you on the inside? I sure hope it does, because there are very little truths in this world, and we don't need your conformist names adding to the lies._

* * *

Pierian looked over the note she had written. Usually, when she got her peroid and was twice as moody as she _normally _was, the group of four would do a collab on a poem, and then wait untill midnight to "set it free" or let it be blown by the wind off someplace far. Today, however, she wrote the note alone. She wasn't sure why today was different, but it just was. Pierian, never one to act normal, had writen the story of the orgin of their names in past tence, third person, focusing it arround a random one of them. She had tried to write it as if Ian had written it himself, but it was hard to get in his head when he wasn't one usually to be up for an interview. After the draft, she got aproval from Blasé (who basically skimmed the first paragraph and nodded) and had Cyanide do the honors of letting it go free. Pierian felt accomplished. Over what, no one could say, but the three males were just happy thier unofficial leader had gotten what ever it was she had out of her system, and they were free to leave for the night.


	2. Neither Heaven Nor Hell

Pierian, Torrent, Cyanide, and Blasé were situated around the picnic tables on the side of the high school. The tallest one, Torrent, had his head in his arms and his knees to his chest, sitting furthest from the school. The red haired teen- Cyanide, was sitting on the top of the table, smoking and glaring at something off in the distance. Pierian was picking flint off her black mesh and Blasé appeared to be asleep. You know; the norm.

"Think Torrent will ever get that letter?"

"Fuck that shit, I don't fucking care." Cyanide continued staring angrily at the brown haired teen by the front steps, diagonal to him. He continued- "Pi, I'm a little busy trying to remember why I hate this one."

"You don't care if Torrent's grandma gets him that hundred fifty?" the girl huffed, angered at both his tone and the use of her nickname's nickname.

"SHH! Seriously- What's that conformist's name?"

Torrent snapped his head up. "Why in hell should it matter?"

Cyanide looked startled but his ticked gaze focused in on the tallest goth instead, "He glared at us and I'm trying to remember what he's done before so I know if this is a first offense or not..." The red head's personality matched his hair. Hot-blooded, angry at any and everyone and quick to over-react.

The girl sighed and started scribbling in her black notebook. She knew where this was headed, and after only so long could she attempt to care enough to stop it.

"Oh, so it doesn't matter if my grandmother remembers my birthday and we get a hundred and fifty fucking dollars?"

Matt flipped his hair. "Birthdays are fucking conformist, _Shane- _and you and _Henrietta_ can go buy all the fucking coffee you want, I refuse to get excited over something so trivial."

"Don't you dare use those conformist bitch names! If you e-"

"Clyde."

The two guys stopped yelling and Henrietta stopped scribbling, all looking over at the smallest dark figure. "What?" Matt asked- either he didn't hear the small voice or he was astonished Ian had spoken.

"Clyde Donovan. Five foot five, C to borderline D grade-point average, Blood type unknown, greatest weakness: self-consciousness, past offenses: glares while encouraging Craig Tucker in provoking us, tripped Cyanide in the English wing in seventh grade, Two younger sisters and currently working at the volcano research center with Stan Marsh's father as a temp." Blasé laid his head back on the table. Now that Cyanide had his answer, would everyone stop yelling and let him sleep already?

Apparently so, because Matt composed himself and turned back to his angered associate. "...would you pardon me?" Cyanide couldn't bring himself to look directly at his best friend (though he himself would never use that term), but Torrent understood.

"Problem averted."

Pierian apparently didn't feel like letting the matter of Ian's words fade away, however. "Our schizoid comrade! You should put that silk voice of yours to use more often. It dances on the single strand of hair that hangs sideways on your face of utter indifference." She smirked, the closest any of them ever get to a smile, and went back to drawing dead dolls in the margins of her poem-book.

This may seem like an odd statement, and therefore a perfect topic of conversation for a group of goth teens, but truthfully- Pierian had the most active imagination of them all, and rarely did the three males know how to respond when she got into "moods". Especially -_certain_- times of the month. Whenever Henrietta got her period, she would confine in only one of them (whomever had annoyed her the least that month, which was usually Blasé) and that goth would have to code "There's blood in the air" to the other two men of the group. Universally; watch out, because the unofficial leader was gonna get to you.

Unresponsive to the female, Blasé set his head back down. It was unlikely he was tired, Blasé just was more of a listener. Well; more of an ignorer.

Kenny McCormick decided then to make an appearance. He wasn't favored by the whole of the group, but could usually bum a cigarette off Pierian if he was sly enough. It was easier then getting them off Christophe or Craig, and Damien quit smoking for reasons unknown. "Hey- Henrietta."

The goth teens turned their attention to the perverted blonde ahead of them. "Kenneth, I've already informed you many times over that my name is Pierian."

"Yeah, but thats hard to remember... And your so pretty, you've me distracted so I can't think as clearly." Henrietta _had_ lost a lot of weight as she grew older, but most wouldn't qualify goth as pretty. Though Kenny might. He had a very lax rulebook when it came to getting what he wanted.

Torrent rolled his eyes and Cyanide scoffed. Pierian slid a cigarette out of its metal holding case. "Here Kenny, we both know this is really why you're here."

"Thanks much Pi. You're a doll." And with that, he smiled and left.

"Why do you let him call you Pi? You hate shortening our names, and you even yell at me for it sometimes!" Cyanide asked, rather forcibly.

"He's seen both heaven and hell, and lived to tell the tale." She replied, and gave one of her signature looks that stated the conversation was to be dropped.

The bell to signal the beginning of school rang, and instead of staying outside until the Vice came for them, the teenagers broke and entered the school. There was blood in the air, and none of them felt like dealing with one another till the arguments of the morning had blown over.


	3. Capture our Flag

_AUTHOR'S NOTES_: Okay! So, you all probably hate me for not updating, right? NO! I know! You've forgotten who I am and have gone back a chapter to recap this story. Well I feel like an ass because I just realized that I had a third chapter out on another website and hadn't put it here. I meant to, I swear.

* * *

It was late.

Really late. Almost-out-of-time late. Three more minutes and he'd be a goner. This particular assignment was a simple one, but it had to be done quickly. Transport the bombs, kill the two guards. Simple. It wasn't the first mission Torrent had gone on, and it certainly wouldn't be the last- but he'd been distracted. While he should have been at this point, rewiring the van- he was still stuck struggling with the plastic explosives that were supposed to blast open the case where the bombs he was stealing were hidden.

-Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…-

"No! Augh!" Torrent yelled, dropping the plastic- along with his concentration. "Fuck, Cy- you can't be silent for _three_ minutes?"

The coffee maker stopped its buzzing. Matt pulled himself up onto the couch Indian style, placing Shane's mauve thermos on the table and drinking out of his own. "That's more of an Ian thing."

"Ian?"

"Yes, Ian. You know, the fourth kid? Kinda small? Been hanging around with us for years now?"

"I know who Ian is, smartass- just assure me you're not resorting back to our given names."

"Finnish your game, Tori." he replied jokingly, somewhat answering the taller goth yet still speaking dismissively.

Torrent ignored his tone and picked back up his Xbox remote. He started up (finally) on the van, pressing the correct configuration of buttons on his controller to make sure the alarms didn't go off. "You know," he said keeping his eyes to the screen, "One of these days that sharp tongue of yours is going to get you in a world of trouble."

Matt finished his sip of coffee before bothering to add input. "Oh?" he asked simply.

With no real way to answer, Torrent rolled his eyes and resumed his high speed chase.

Two and a fourth minutes later, the entire screen burst into a flurry of reds, yellows and oranges- some black here and there, but mostly warm tones, exciting the adrenaline inside Torrent. Sure, he had lost, (probably due to the various distractions) and sure, he got blown up- but it all happened so… beautifully. Those flashes of bright colors were his favorite part of the game, especially the deepest reds, always guaranteeing pools of blood or the center of some major convolution.

"Why do you even play these things, Tor? They're so… mainstream."

"They're violent."

"Figures." Cyanide took another sip, flipping his needed-to-be-dyed-soon hair.

* * *

When Blasé saw the faint outline of where Henrietta's hair was flinging off to as she turned on her heel and searched the ground, pacing; he knew right away what kind of hour this was going to be. He made his way over to the floor in front of the gothic leader's bed and sat- watching her go back and forth a few times. Pierian finally noticed his presence and dove in to lean on her knees in front of the ridiculously tiny goth.

Neither broke the careful silence, though to an outsider it would seem as if they were daring the other to.

Had this been a day when he hadn't been summoned to stop her from freaking out (too much), Blasé would have flat out refused to have spoken up first. But Henrietta was only oh-so-obviously on the edge of some cliff or another, and Ian wisely started the conversation before Pierian's own stubbornness just started to frustrate herself even more. It was… safer this way. For everyone. Better to give into doing something normal than to have Pierian thrash out on the added stress of losing a miniature battle over some minor rebelliance to her unspoken word, which she would consider a threat to her crown.

Blasé shifted. "You texted?" It wasn't going to be that simply fearing for his own safety (or even Pierian's mental heath) was going to force Blasé to say more than as little as he could possibly get away with- no; that would stand against a good majority of Ian's beliefs, and he didn't have many left he even tried to hold on to.

None the less, the submissive gesture of his fact he had answered was deemed good enough for the female. After all, she wouldn't want him _too_ talkative- that would defeat the purpose of specifically choosing someone she could rant at with no interruptions, someone who'd take it all in and maybe offer advise, or at the very least _pretend_ to listen… the queen of the damned's other subjects would have done something to unknowingly make everything worse. Too violent, even during times of peace or crisis- she'd been meaning to work on that of them.

"Yeah- I did," she started, returning back to her miniature tour of the space between her dresser and blacklight-lamp, again and again and again, though now instead of the floor, she studied her gloved hands. Interruptions were aside- they were now getting down to business.

"I..." she started- then stopped to finish a few more laps. Blasé watched her, and procceded to chip away black nail paint off his fingers. Pierian glanced around the room, letting her eyes fall on random objects before she closed them and took a deep breath. When she opened back up, she fixed those eyes on her subject before herself, as he did her, and Henrietta let her anger rise to her chest.

"I Hate." she said, her lips on the verge of a frown and her eyebrows tilted in. "_I hate.__**Everything**__._"

Blasé felt somewhere in the back of his mind like he was being tested. It was an absurd emotion for the situation, but not unusal for one so usually guarded. "Alright then- elaborate."

Pierian sighed again, either out of relief that she had an alli in the world or frustration that she had to admit her moment of weakness, Blasé would never figure out. "I usually just feel... disapointed in the world, you know? Like sure, it's horrid, but still maluable. Lately I... I just fucking hate the whole concept of... _exsistance_! Not even asking 'what's the point?', because there is none! This is IT! I hate people! PEOPLE," she stressed, "Are whats wrong with humanity. And I hate everyone for it! Everyone! Well, not myself, that would be pointless, and not really you- but everyone else! Even those two imbisols who can't even see what the fucks right in front of them- even, and especially, that _**motherfucking whore**_!" Henrietta screamed the last part out of no where and the boy flinched. Their queen may have lost some weight, but she still had enough space in her for a hell of a large set of lungs.

The two imbisols would be Cyanide and Torrent, and the whore was obviously Kenny McCormick. Blasé knew, but still was a bit preocupied making sure she wasn't about to scream anymore than to come up with anything to say. After a dose of a few secconds worth of stern yet calming looks, Pierian seemed to pull herself back into her normal devious, excentric, and unpredictable self. "Whatever- I bet they get over that sexual frustration thing before too long." Henrietta shruged and fiddled around with things on her desk. Secretly, she was analysing Ian's reaction to the new thought that the others could be dealing with things far beyond Ian's emotional capability to understand. He stared back at her, his face a hint of surprise- a simple kind of surprise, like, 'Oh, I hadn't thought of it that way.' rather than a homophobic reaction. Although Blasé _seemed_ to look over her words, he hadn't given them actual consideration. Pierian was just crazy- Blasé was used to dismissing her words silently by now. She didn't know Ian still didn't care, she just accepted his reaction to be analysed at a later date.

True to the nature of that which is Henrietta's own, the next thing she did was dive into a new mood- or rather, back into her old mood, and started back up yelling and pacing and breaking and saying things that would break spirts if heard, and Blasé sat. He sat through all of it; the breaking, the theories on why so-and-so was anoying or evil, or who-and-who was denser than what for one reason or another.

Everyone deals with things in their own way. Some people trash others behind their backs. Some people cry. Some people set fire to things. Some people feel the need to beat up someone weaker than them. Some people shrug it off as not such a big deal. Some people smile and pretend nothing happened, all the while pained on the inside.

If you are or were someone in the catagory of these two, you would do one of two things. Yell and break and curse and pace and soon after feel good enough to forget, or sit and wait things out.

And that is what they did.

* * *

Faint sounds of ticking clocks and fainter sounds of the lacross team outside were the only things to be heard in the abandoned classroom. On some days, there were no lacross noises. On most days, there was breathing and talking.

One of the two old art rooms was closed after the budget cuts two years ago, and was now used as a simple storage room for the other. Due to those same budget cuts, there was not much to fill the store room with, so it remained in its resemblance of an art class, which left room to walk and sit on boxes. The main door out to the hallway was locked, but the teachers' office conecting both rooms was not. The teachers' office used to be part office, part store room- and when the new space opened up, the art teacher and assistant pushed all their things forward, to be more private. Even when they were in their office, which that itself was seldom, it was not hard for the four to sneak past. They'd only been caught five times. Three times by the assistant, who just made sure they weren't stealing suplies and let them be, once by Craig who didn't even notice he walked right through the office on his way to complain over grades (he'd left the goths in seconds), and once by a lazy janator who didn't take his job seriously enough to care whether the kids were in the hallways or ten feet inward. The Principals over the years had grown wise to the goths' old hangout behind the school gym, but none had yet to find them here. The goth kids sometimes worried in the back of their minds that the Principal would offer a raise to any Janitor that could oprehend the "trouble makers" (he took his job with a seriousness unfathomable), and that the Janitor who once found them would turn them in. But either the Principal had never considered this method, or the Janitor was not bright enough to put two and two together. No one knew for sure. But _this_- was their safehaven. Their kingdom, none the less.

Pierian's accustomed throne was on top of the old teacher desk- most likely due to her fantasy that she ruled and the rest were her loyalists. Blasé sat at an open desk just a touch off center. Cyanide used to lounge against the box of exactoknives before it was one day found to be missing (opened to replace the old ones in the true art room). Now he sits by the scisors. Torrent's place is atop a box that's height was to his liking, not bothering to know what it contained.

There are acustomed spots for anyone in any group. People tend to know things such as that the third desk to the left in English was Damien's, and Damien's alone, for example. When there are only four places to check, it's hard _not_ to notice when half your group is missing.

"Where's the guys?" Only silence followed the question. Pierian huffed and set down her coffee (one part coffee, two parts expresso, one half shot hazelnut and half the regular amount of 2% milk- the "usual") in the most regal manor she could manage while irritated. "Those boys..." she rolled her eyes. Ian did his best to apear sympathetic for Henrietta's sake. He failed. This delehma was not a new one. It seemed to him that for the past year or so that they'd been arguing more often, and it was all getting a bit boring.

Footsteps. At first they were faint and mistaken for the lacross team. After two years your first reactions are no longer fears of getting caught. When the stamps got louder Pierian's face widened momentarily with just the smallest gesture of recognition. She closed her eyes and picked back up her coffee. It was easy now to distinguish these steps from any others. One set of boots mashed their masses into the ground clankily with every step, and the other's noise was completely stealthed. Together, it meant the rest of the group finally showed up.

Blasé pointedly busied himself with things in his reach- not wanting to be a part of what might come next.

"Nice of you both to join us, Torrent- Cyanide." Henrietta's eyes were still closed in her callings, but she opened them up at the mention of the two names. She set down her thermos and looked sternly to their faces for answers.

Torrent hopped up on his seat. "He wanted a cigarette break- we all agreed smoking in here would cause too much alarm, I just waited for him."

Matt had carried on his jacket a smell of tobacco- evidence to support their alibi. Henrietta smirked knowingly enough to be a devious smile.

"I kept our being late to under five minutes." Pointed out Matt. The weirdest things set off Henrietta. To make all right with the world, you had to be both under five minutes late (five being her favorite number) and with someone. As long as Cyanide was with Torrent, Pierian never seemed angered when they came in late. Ian was late once. By two minutes. He was forced to sit on top of the teacher's desk next to Henrietta, a suitible punishment she thought for Ian who didn't like attention. Sometimes the two tallest males wondered if one of them were with Blasé, would it have made a difference. Unlikely... Henrietta always seemed more spontanious and carefree when Shane and Matt were grouped together for something. Unsetting, maybe- convinent? Yes.

"Adorable." She said flatly- "Moving on!" Pierian uncrossed her legs and swirled around behind her to the green tinted blackboard. She held in her hand yellow chalk unseen before now. On the board, she wrote in her large scratchy-yet-at-the-same-time-loopy handwritting 'MISSION CODENAME: CAPTURE THE FLAG- BLACK V.S ORANGE'.

"...Excuse me?" Torrent raised his hand.

Serious faced, Henrietta nodded sharply and called "Yes, Sargent Irascible Beast?"

Torrent knew better than to directly question her sanity. "What is it exactly we're doing?"

"You will adress me as Comander Leader, is that clear?" She asked/comanded loudly.

He played along. "Crystal, Comander." He almost laughed but caught himself- and saluted.

"Good. What we are doing," She looked around to her three new soldiers. They would need training... "Is planing our first kidnapping. Ideas?"

More silence.

"Our what?" Cyanide straitened his back against the boxes. Hastilly, he added in a 'Comander'.

Henrietta sighed as if she had explained her inner minds workings five times before already. "Mission 'Capture the flag: Black v.s Orange'. What, the title doesn't say it all?"

Her 'army' looked at eachother. Torrent pulled himself off his box and moved up closer, near Blasé. He whispered, "Did she say anything about this when we were out back?" A shake of the head answered him.

Pierian still had no answer. Some would take that as a no- Pierian took it as a need for an answer. "Does the title not say it all?"

"No."

"No."

"...not really."

Henrietta rolled her eyes and comanded everyone face the back wall until she was done fixing their mission title. It was days like these that the group wondered why they put up with her, but it was always aparent that it was her that kept them together. Blasé wouldn't ever have found the need to show up or remain in the goth group if not threatened by Pierian, and the routene unpredictablitiy livened up their lives and gave Cyanide and Torrent something to laugh over in secret.

The three shared a spacy few moments listening to the echos of chalk to a board, clock tics, and the team out the window. "Sargent Schizoid Comrade, you turn first. Does this explain our mission well enough now?"

Blasé turned. "uh... yeaahhhh.... Comander Leader."

"Good. You both may turn now too."

Shane and Matt turned. And boy, did they not expect what was written from the clues of the last mission title. The entire board, save seven or so inches up from the bottom was covered in the new wording- "MISSION CODENAME: THE MISSION WHERE SARGENTS IRASCIBLE BEAST AND LURID SHADOWER WAIT TO FIND DEAD SLASH KILL KENNY MCCORMICK AND BRING HIM BACK, BLINDFOLDED, TO THE ART ROOM WHILE COMANDER LEADER INTERAGATES THE PRISONER AND SARGENT SCHIZOID COMRAD DOES SOMETHING MERCINARY-LIKE TO SEEM LIKE WE ARE PROFESIONALS THAT KNOW WHAT WE ARE DOING. PROCEDURE: SEE CODENAME."

"Qustions?"

Both Torrent and Cyanide raised their hands. Blasé buried his head in his.

"No? Good. It was nice planing this mission with you guys. Especially you, Torrent- your knowledge of videogames came in quite handy during the home stretch there." Pierian looked at her thermos and decided without testing it that the coffee had run cold by now. "Get some sleep men- we set out at precisely after the last bell tomorrow."


End file.
